Fits and Starts
by gaycopshow
Summary: Reese is unsure. Finch is oblivious.
1. Chapter 1

When Finch gets back to the library he's surprised to see Reese there, dead asleep in a chair beside the desk. While it isn't odd for Reese to stick around after a number, he was usually a bit more alert. Judging by his awkward slouch and rumpled clothes he didn't even have time to clean up first. His face has bruising down the left side, and there are specks of blood on his sleeves that he decides not to examine too closely. He must have come straight here after wrapping things up with Ms. Kellerman. Reese looks whole for the most part, if exhausted. Finch takes a moment to admire the tilted slump of Reese's neck, an angle impossible for him now, he thinks wistfully, before he gets to work.

As soon as he presses the first key, Reese wakes up.

"I thought I told you to get some rest," says Finch.

Reese groans low as Finch hears him shifting behind him. "Couldn't sleep," he says.

"You know, an adrenaline rush can often lead to an adrenaline crash," says Finch.

Reese makes a 'hnn' noise and moves his chair forward. Finch automatically makes room for him and continues typing away.

"What are you doing?" John asks.

Finch tells him about the new number and background checks and the really appalling state of security on most corporate networks. John doesn't seem to want to talk, but he smiles and nods in the right places so Finch keeps going anyway. He can only see Reese out of the corner of his eye, but Finch can tell something isn't right. He's leaning forward with his chin in his hands and his long legs carelessly spread out in front of him. He looks like he's listening, but he's far too quiet. Finch can tell he's watching him, but his blue-green eyes are focused on nothing. He can't tell what John's thinking right now. That's nothing new, but he has a feeling it's important this time and he can't figure out why.

He stops talking when he runs out of steam and waits for John to do something, but John just sits there like he's waiting for something to happen. He keeps typing, but it's mostly to keep himself busy while Reese figures out whatever it is he's figuring out. After a while, the familiar pain of his right leg starts to throb. Finch winces as he gets up and leans against the table to stretch. John still watches him.

"Harold," John says.

"Mr. Reese," he retorts.

After all this time he still favors his right side. It's next to impossible for anyone to overwrite decades of instinct. Even through the years of pain and physical therapy he still forgets to give himself a break. But he's paying for it now.

"I forgot this year," says John.

Finch stops. "...What?"

"Jessica. Last week was her," John waves his hand in the air in front of him instead of finishing.

Oh. It takes him a second but he remembers. She died four years ago last week, but Reese didn't know that at the time.

"Oh," Finch says stupidly. Nothing ever changes for him when the day Ingram died rolls around. Most of the time he's too engrossed in the work, and it passes by unnoticed. But then again, he's never needed an excuse to torture himself over it. He'd probably get a new bookmark if he did, he thinks. It always hits him when he least expects it. But Jessica's death is different for John. She's been dead for half a decade, but for him it's only been a year. What do you call a death anniversary?

John gets up. He's walking and restless now, but his face is carefully blank. He wanders over and leans next to Finch, close enough to feel their shoulders touch and past Finch's personal space bubble yet still closed off somehow. Sometimes he notices a faint sharp burnt smell that hangs off of John. He thinks it must be the smell of gunfire. It mixes with the heavier scent of dried sweat and Reese and its unmistakable when they're this close. Finch wonders what he should say next, but his brain isn't cooperating right now. He feels out of his depth, and his fingers twitch where his hands rest against the desk.

"We were- we were busy with the Hasford family last week," Finch says all at once.

"Yeah. We were," John says it so quietly that he almost doesn't hear it. John seems to relax a little and gives a small smile. With that Finch doesn't feel quite so useless, even if he knows it wasn't the right thing to say. He can't say he's sorry, not yet. Not when John doesn't know everything.

Then Reese is gently cupping his face and he's not thinking at all anymore. He can tell John is giving him enough time to break contact and pull back, but Finch grabs him by his collar and pulls him forward. Reese makes a surprised noise against his mouth (and really, private doesn't mean repressed) and stumbles forward, pressing them against the desk. Finch sucks on his lower lip and John moves a hand to Finch's hip as he pulls them closer together. John's hand slides underneath Finch's vest, and he makes a frustrated sound as he un-tucks the back of the shirt to get closer.

His pain is down from a three to a two, and he thinks vaguely about endorphins as John- _fuck,_ kisses him back. There's no finesse in the easy friction of John's tongue and the warmth of his hands, but he's careful enough not to jar his neck. Finch can tell John isn't used to this. Finch has his hands on Reese's shoulder and jaw and he can feel the urgency and desperation in the way John moves. Finch smoothes his hands on John's exposed skin to soothe him and slow him down but it only works in fractions. John presses a hand up and down Finch's warm back, feeling the way his skin moves as they push against each other. Finch can feel more than hear him making small needy noises as John slips his hand beneath Finch's waistband and grabs his ass. John's hard against him and Finch can't say he was ever quite expecting this.

When John pulls back he's wide-eyed and dazed but he doesn't let go. The last thing Finch wants is to startle him, so he gives him a moment to calm down and steady himself. For a few moments they both just breathe. He looks John over and thinks sweaty and flushed looks good on him when no one is trying to kill them. He gives John a slight smile and wonders if he looks the same. John closes his eyes and asks, "Did you know she was a number?"

He freezes, but John doesn't retreat.

Finch watches as John (or Agent Reese?) licks his lips and swallows before asking again. "Did you know she was a number?" Reese asks again. His voice shakes a little this time.

Reese really isn't being fair here, not when he's looking at him like that and still has his hand down his- "If you're asking then you already know," he says slowly.

"Say it. Please. I need-"

"I knew."

John takes a shuddering breath and leans his forehead against Finch's shoulder. It puts too much of a strain on his neck and they end up sliding down to the floor. He's only loosely cradling Finch's waist now but he's not letting go. Finch has no idea why John hasn't left yet. He wants to ask why he's still here, why he isn't angrier, how he found out about Jessica so soon and so much more, but it's not what John needs right now. He doesn't know what John needs, and it scares him to think about. He tries to think of what to say, anything to say to make John feel human again, but nothing comes to mind. Grief has never been his forte, and he's left grasping for anything at all.

"She was the first person, the first number I met," he says. He's speaking in starts and stops now and it irritates him. He's never liked it when his voice won't cooperate. To calm himself he takes a deep breath, in and out.

"I didn't tell her about the machine. Or anything; we only talked for a moment," he says.

"What did you talk about?" John asks.

His mouth goes dry all of a sudden. "I ran into her in a coffee shop," he pauses. "The machine was- I had to see if they really existed," he says forcefully.

I watched her die, he doesn't say. He runs his fingertips up and down John's back before moving into his hairline. "It didn't seem real, at the time."He can still see the blood coming out all at once, before she was still. It's so clear in his mind sometimes. He had never seen anyone die before that. He pushes the memory of her away, but there are so many insignificant details he can't forget.

Reese shifts his weight and pulls himself closer. Finch never thought he'd ever end his day cuddling on the floor with Agent John Reese. John's breathing slows and his eyes are only half open now. He knows better than to assume Reese is off his guard, but he lets himself relax anyway as he continues to scratch his scalp. John reminds him of a cat right now. Finch smiles wryly. The metaphor is strangely apt.

"She mentioned you," he says. Reese laughs a little at that. He remembers she kept twisting her wedding ring.

"What are you doing here, John?" he finally asks.

Reese sighs and slowly untangles himself. For the first time, Finch notices how cold the floor is. He misses John instantly.

"I thought I'd care more. I thought if I heard you say it, I wouldn't still want to be here. That I wouldn't still..." he trails off. He's never heard Reese sound so exhausted and unsure. Jessica isn't the only thing he's upset about.

"Harold, do you remember when we met, what you told me in the hotel? You said I couldn't save her."

"John, back then I wouldn't have let you-" he starts.

"You can keep your secrets, but you can't lie to me anymore, Harold," he looks right at him as he says it and Finch's stomach drops.

"John," Finch states calmly but John isn't listening. He's getting up now, or most likely running away again. Finch grabs his wrist and doesn't let him leave. Reese could easily break his hold, but he doesn't. He actually looks torn, but Finch is through going easy on him.

"John, what are you really running away from?" he says.

"I need some time," John says. He glances over at the doorway indecisively.

"So you're leaving," says Finch. It's not a question.

"No, I'm-" John cuts himself off. He changes the hold Finch has on his wrist into something more intimate.

"I'll be here," John says. Finch is surprised. He decides to let John pull him to his feet. He's scrutinizing John's eyes and the lines of worry in his face but John is staring down at their hands. He's turning Finch's over absent-mindedly and carefully rubbing his thumb along his wrist and palm.

"I'll always be here, Finch," John says. He finally looks up. "But I need some time. I don't want to mess this up," he says.

"You don't," Finch says. But John seems to be doing whatever he can to get as far away from him as possible. "Are you talking about me or the machine?" He almost wants to laugh.

"Please," John pleads. As John squeezes his hand and looks at him he realizes he never had a chance of saying no.

"Alright," Finch says quietly. His voice cracks and he knows he's completely fucked. How did this happen without him noticing? When exactly did he fall in love with John?


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Summary: Reese is oblivious. Finch is unsure.

No beta this time. ):

* * *

><p>He doesn't see Finch for days.<p>

On the first night, John walks until morning.

Walking is good; walking is fine. The feel of his feet hitting the ground and pushing him forward make it feel like he knows where he's going. When you've been all over the world, each city smells a little different from the next. New York doesn't smell like San Francisco; Bogota isn't Tehran. It's been raining since his impromptu nap in the library, but by now the clouds have moved off to loom threateningly on edges of the sky. It's chilly with only his jacket, but his coat is back at his new place and nothing else waits for him there. If he goes back now, Harold might find him and that's not something he's willing to do right now. The smell of the city sings in shades of wet pavement, light pollution and urban decay; it calms his nerves but it doesn't tell him anything.

The city is comforting after a rain. Maybe it's the metaphorical cleansing or the strange shine of steel, stone and earth, but no matter where he is it feels like home. Rain can erase footprints, wash away shell casings, blood... identities. It's been over a decade since he's stayed in one place so long, but ever since the machine came along, leaving has barely crossed his mind. Just what the fuck is he doing?

There's a run-down thrift store on the right with an ancient security camera stationed at the entrance, likely only as high tech as a cable connected to a VCR. Walk in, buy a coat, in and out. He can't afford to get a cold right now. Sniffle-y spies get shot. The many-pierced clerk doesn't look up from her magazine as he walks inside. "We close in fifteen," she says.

"Ah. I uh, just need a coat," he says.

"On the left," she says in a flat monotone and turns the page.

Grateful for the lack of conversation, John begins thumbing through the racks. The place is cramped, small and musty. He thinks Harold would greatly disapprove, and he smiles, but the man does manage to surprise him sometimes. Expecting out-right rejection, John did something he probably shouldn't have by pressing him up against the desk and just letting go for a moment. Now John knows how hot his skin feels when he's flushed and the taste, texture and stubble of his mouth. He can still feel the subtle shifting movements his body made only hours before. He had no idea Harold could kiss like that. Kissing Harold was- Harold isn't even his real name.

Even with that careful distance and seemingly reticent nature, Finch never pushes him away outright. Maybe he should. No matter what Finch says, there isn't any way he can know everything about John. Not even the machine can have the whole picture. There are certain things that don't exist in records and certain places cameras don't reach.

When he left the agency, he stopped in a place like this. It could be the same place, for all he knows. A change of identity is essential for the operative on the run. He falters on a worn, military-issue jacket and keeps looking.

His ex-colleagues (known and unknown) were watching any place connected with his past, and Jessica. He couldn't visit her grave, so he had his own private wake with several bottles of cheap whiskey and stayed that way for a long time. The city was the last place she was alive, and for a while that was reason enough for him to stay. He was starting to think of moving some place warmer until Harold limped by, single-minded determination, stubborn gait and all. He has a peculiar and precise tone of talking and specific speaking that John can recall in an instant. "_Mr. Reese?"_

Eventually, he decides on a faded black coat with missing buttons and too-long sleeves, but it should keep him warm and dry. The clouds thunder impotently overhead as he exits the shop.

* * *

><p>Jessica was... a bit like Finch in some ways but completely and utterly different. She loved cheap wine and trashy novels, but cream and sugar were a crime against good tea. Anything on the radio besides NPR was met with absolute refusal and loud, boisterous complaints. "<em>Boo, John this is awful. John you are KILLING me with this, this NOISE."<em> They either would have got along famously or hated each other on sight. When it comes right down to it he can't, or could never, figure out either of them. "_What are you doing here, John?"_ he can still hear Finch say.

It was raining when he first realized he loved her. What would she think of him now? Would she offer her blessing? Would she feel betrayed? He doesn't know, he doesn't know. He should care more. As time goes by, it shouldn't become easier to live with her absence, but against his will it seems to be happening anyway.

Hours later, John passes by a liquor store and keeps going.

* * *

><p>Someone's following him. It's simple enough to lead his tail into an empty street and duck out of sight. Tall and gruesome narrows his eyes and looks around in obvious confusion before cursing in defeat. It's almost predictable. Perhaps Harold sent someone to follow him, but that seems unlikely, especially on such short notice. "<em>So you're leaving."<em> His throat tightens from the memory and the plain disappointment and controlled anger layered through his words. It stopped John in his tracks when he realized he wasn't leaving at all.

But now tall and gruesome is getting closer and it's time to find out who the man works for. He waits for the right moment and-

Gruesome sees him and bolts. Huh.

The more he stands here and thinks about it, the more likely it seems that Harold would have a contingency plan for a rogue Mr. Reese. But something tells him this scenario doesn't quite fit. Harold was angry with him at first, but then he seemed quiet, almost resigned. He doesn't know what to make it.

He keeps walking.

* * *

><p>At an hour past daybreak, it starts raining again. John relents and heads toward his current hotel room for sleep; it's only a short distance away.<p>

In some ways, it's easier to think when you're this exhausted; there's less of you there to fight against. Finch let Jessica die and he can't forgive that yet, but it seems to be happening despite himself. He knows he loved her more than anything else or it wouldn't still hurt this much. The only person, _man_ he cares for let the only woman he loves, _loved_ die alone. When he thinks about it he gets this tight feeling in his chest and it almost feels like he's close to dying. But when he thinks about leaving Finch alone and in danger he gets this strange fear and has to check on the stubborn man to make sure he's really okay. It's disorienting to say the least.

He takes a different route back to his apartment, one that crosses paths with a liquor store.

The CIA never trained him in the art of seduction; Kara never had the patience for it and the agency only intended for the two of them to be assassins. Even when he was young he knew his future laid with the army, so sleeping with men wasn't something he thought about.

Even with what he was able to dig up on Harold, he still knows so little. There are surface things like habits (not sleeping and not taking care of himself), hobbies (collecting records, ancient computers, and old books) and how best to annoy him (far too easy) but these facts aren't enough and it's utterly surprising. He wants to know what makes the man tick, his thoughts, his wants, his daily complaints, the shape of him and all.

The rain's dripping down into his collar and he suddenly notices he's walked half a block too far.

He can remember hands, calloused and soft steadying him as he leaned in. Does he taste the same everywhere? It occurs to him that he groped Harold's ass and he can't quite believe he did that. The curves and points of his hips are know by touch now and John feels the need to learn more, the outward and inward angles of his bones, back and stomach and his every facial twinge. Does Harold want fast and passionate or slow and sensual? He wonders about the timbre of his voice when they fuck and John's brain sort of stutters and stops there.

"_John, back then I wouldn't have let you-"_

Back then.

He doesn't know who Harold was before he changed his mind about how to use the machine. John's not the only one who's lost someone. He wonders if Harold acquired his limp and stiff neck at the same time he lost someone or if it's only incidental.

When he reaches his temporary place, he takes off his wet clothes and sleeps into the afternoon.

* * *

><p>The next day, John stays in and gets really, really, incredibly drunk.<p>

It's not about the machine, it's not. The machine saved his life; Harold saved his life. The machine and Harold. Harold and the machine. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. What would he do without the machine, pay his penance protecting a lonely billionaire? What would he do without Harold, work for an unseen hunk of machinery, programmed to save lives but not to care? If one can exist without the other, John doesn't see how.

* * *

><p>Harold did nothing as she bled out. He keeps waiting for the sting of betrayal to drive him to away, but nothing comes of it. Despite it all something still keeps him around.<p>

* * *

><p>The few days Harold was able to keep him wheelchair-bound were excruciating enough. If he had to stay still and sit on his hands for another week he probably would have gone mad. There are only so many times you can clean a gun before it fails to calm your nerves. Too much time with nothing to do and he goes stir-crazy. Harold has his mind and more but John doesn't have anything but his hands and what the CIA taught him. He can't imagine doing what Harold does, day in, day out, and still remaining sane. They're two very different people, but John thinks Harold's capabilities and hidden depths reveal someone much stronger than him.<p>

He's stuck in place and his past won't let him go. He has to convince himself to go slowly; he can't rush things. If he messes this up he won't be able to forgive himself, and he's made up of too much of that already.

The next day, there are more than a few bottles left. His tolerance isn't as high as it used to be.

* * *

><p>In the morning, John has a truly blinding hangover and really regrets that stop at the liquor store. After making a half-hearted attempt at cleaning up, (all bottles by the door), he gives up and hits the shower to soothe his throbbing skull. Aspirin, steam and hot water ease his pain and help pull him out of the sluggish stupor of the early morning, but there's always more for him to do. First shower, then food.<p>

He only has his pants on when he hears the front door open. The uneven footfalls are instantly recognizable, so he takes his time exiting the bathroom. Finch is by the front door, dressed to the nines as usual, and inspecting a discarded bottle.

"Bacardi? Why don't you just drink hairspray. I'm sure the taste is similar enough," Harold says.

"I didn't buy it for the taste," John says wryly and a little petulantly. Harold glances up at him for just a beat too long before resuming his careful bottle inspection.

"I'm throwing it all out anyway, Finch. Call it a moment of weakness," John says.

"Hmm," says Harold.

It's all too easy to fall back into their same established pattern, the teasing rapport and unanswered questions. He doesn't want to stay away from Finch anymore.

"So how'd you find out?" Harold asks.

He's asking John about Jessica. Harold picks up another bottle and barely glances at him. It's almost as if he's refusing to get distracted by appearing to be entirely distracted. His tie is a small circular pattern with a dark deep teal today.

"There isn't much you can't dig up with a little bit of leg work," John says. And a bit of unexpected help.

Harold's reaction is slight. There's an almost imperceptible twitch to his eyebrows and a small upturn at the corner of his mouth. From the shine of his glasses to the shine of his shoes the man remains inscrutable.

"I'll have to remember that," he says.

Harold seems to be cleaning up. John's not sure he notices what he's doing and it's wonderful, fascinating and strange all at once. He's moving things in inches and fractions and placing them just so, if only to rearrange John's mess.

He scrutinizes a new bottle and looks at it as though it has personally offended him.

"I see you did quite a bit of... thinking," Harold says in his dry tone, and John can't help but smile.

"Some," he says.

There's a silence. Harold's stopped examining bottles and appears to be thinking now. John knows he should say something but his tongue feels heavy in his mouth and nothing comes to him. Harold looks wistful but determined as he licks his lips and prepares to speak.

"If you-" he says.

"I-" John says.

Harold pauses and waits with an indecipherable expression on his face. He might be tense or perhaps worried, but neither description seems to quite fit. John doesn't know what he was going to say to Harold, but he feels lost and it must be written all over his face. Harold hesitates and shifts toward the door, but John needs to say something to keep him from leaving.

"If you need more time-" Harold starts.

"Is there a new number?" John asks.

He's clearly surprised him.

"Yes," he says slowly.

"Who?"

Harold blinks, opens his mouth once, and then closes it. "Andie Lavell, a marketing consultant from Rochester," he says, his voice still tinged with surprise. His eyebrows are tilted very high now and he's still confused, but wary. Normally John likes leaving him speechless, but right now he only wants to keep him around.

"Then I guess we should see what Mr. Lavell has been up to lately," John says as he grins and leaves the main room to finish dressing.

"It's Mrs. Lavell," he hears Harold say belatedly from a room away.

When John re-enters the main room Harold is still there. And every bottle and box of alcohol, half-empty, empty and full, is in the trash. Still, he wants to save something, if only to irritate Harold. He picks up an unopened white wine off the top.

"What's wrong with this one?" John asks.

"You're kidding, right?" Harold says and gives him a look.

John looks back innocently.

"It's in a box," Harold feels the need to really emphasize the word box.

John raises an eyebrow.

Harold raises his back.

John gives him a tilted grin.

Harold gives up and sighs. "At least it's a Riesling. If you chill it enough and you can't taste a thing."

* * *

><p>And John comes back. The atmosphere is tense for a few days, but things go back to normal, or at least normal for them. Finch doesn't ask.<p>

* * *

><p>AUTHOR: Most of the cheap Riesling I've tried doesn't have much of a taste, but this by no means applies to all Riesling. Just the other day, I had a high to mid-level one that had a very strong gasoline taste. It's not really my thing though.<p> 


End file.
